


the demons in your head always had the best intent

by wllgrahams



Category: Secret History - Donna Tartt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-11
Updated: 2015-03-11
Packaged: 2018-03-17 11:08:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3526982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wllgrahams/pseuds/wllgrahams
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Camilla walks to the sink and holds her still bleeding hand over it. She doesn’t have the energy to open a tap— doesn’t have the energy to stand, really, but Francis is rummaging inside a cupboard for a first aid kit and it seems civil not to drip blood all over his carpet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the demons in your head always had the best intent

**Author's Note:**

> this is meant to fit just before the bacchanal, but the timeline isn't very specific. warnings for mentions of violence and injury, alcoholism, and canon incest. title is from cathedrals' harlem.

Cracks spread along the mirror from the centre, where her fist shattered the glass. Smaller shards start to fall, clinking into the sink and mixing with the blood dripping from her hand.

“Camilla!”

She doesn't reply, just stares down at her hands, one glinting red in the yellow bathroom light, the other clenched so tightly around the edge of the sink that it’s pale and bloodless.

“Camilla I know you’re in there and if you don’t open this god damn door I’ll rip it off its hinges.”

Rain starts to batter against the open window. Camilla takes one last look at her reflection in the broken mirror— it’s distorted but she can still see the bags under her reddened eyes, her knotted hair, chapped lips— and looks out of the window down to the hedge below it. There’s no moon so she can’t see clearly but she knows their apartment and all the ways out of it. The window frame is small but she manages to squeeze her legs through so they dangle precariously on the other side.

“Camilla.” He’s not shouting now, and she hears a muffled thump as he sits down against the door. “Camilla, please, I love you, please let me in.”

As her eyes adjust to the darkness, she sees the fire escape just a few metres to her right and grabs the drainpipe next to her. The hand she sliced open stings as she uses it to brace herself against the windowsill and turn her head towards the bathroom door.

“Don’t try to find me Charles. I’ll come back when I'm ready.”

Charles must hear her because faint sobbing reaches her from the other side. Camilla doesn't wait around until he turns angry again; she pushes off from the window, swings onto the fire escape, and runs.

**

“Jesus Christ, you’re soaked. And bleeding.” Francis isn't even remotely surprised to see her, just gestures for her to follow him and walks back inside his apartment. Camilla walks to the sink and holds her still bleeding hand over it. She doesn't have the energy to open a tap— don’t have the energy to stand, really, but Francis is rummaging inside a cupboard for a first aid kit and it seems civil not to drip blood all over his carpet.

“Sorry.” She knows she doesn't need to apologise but she does anyway, every time. “He drank too much again and I couldn't— “

“I know.” Francis’ body stills completely for a few seconds before he emerges from the cupboard holding a small box. Neither of them mention that his hands are shaking as he puts it down on the counter. The apartment stays silent, apart from the spraying of the tap and the rustling of the bandage, as Francis cleans up her hand. It’s eerie but strangely calming. Camilla focuses on his long, elegant fingers as they hold her wrist impossibly lightly, and, god, it’s such a shame, such a despicable shame that he’s still in love with a monster. She loves her brother, she always will, but not how Francis does, not how Charles wants her to love him. Not anymore. At times like these, she’s not sure she loves her brother at all— but then again, her brother in a drunken rage isn't really her brother, but another creature entirely, something she wants to lock in a cage, or a labyrinth. Something she want to leave alone to rot forever.

“You don’t want him to love you, Francis.” Camilla doesn't realise she spoke aloud, can’t really register much of anything through the numbness that spread through her as soon as she turned the lock on that bathroom door.

He stares at her, stunned, before his jaw tightens and he turns away, letting go of her wrist. Blood is still gathering at the bottom of the sink, watered down now, swirling slowly down the drain. Camilla thinks that this is what’s happening to her mind; a swirling cacophony of nothing in particular. This is good. A few years ago she would have been crying, screaming, hysterical on the kitchen tiles, overcome by her emotions, incapable of anything but feeling. She’s long since learned to close herself off from that; she’s had to.

“Why?” Her eyes snap to Francis— he’s still turned away, not looking at her, head hung low.

“Look at what being loved by him has done to me. Look, and tell me you want that.” Maybe she sounds calm. Maybe she sounds tired, so very tired of everything, world-weary and aged beyond her years. “I don’t want that for you. I don’t want that for myself but fuck, he’d tear you to shreds, Francis.”

“He already has.” His voice cracks and god, she almost wishes she had stayed in that bathroom because it’s too much. Her brother, Francis, Henry, Bunny’s relentless jibes. All of them, their reckless, childish plans to unite with pagan deities by gouging out their souls, twisting themselves beyond recognition— they could be better. So much better. She wishes she could stop. Run away, never look back. Away from Charles and Henry, away from Bunny, just _away_.

She won’t.

They need her, all of them and she is shattered, like the mirror in that fucking bathroom, but they’ll hold on to shards of her like marooned sailors because they have nothing else. Neither does she. Francis is looking at her over his shoulder now, expectant, his profile sharp in the harsh light of the kitchen. Camilla looks at him, at his hunched shoulders, his slender frame— he looks fragile, and isn’t it ironic that she’s so much stronger than all these boys playing at legendary heroes. Except it’s not ironic— it’s history and these oh so clever scholars don’t see it. Bacchus did. Women resurrect themselves, and they make themselves strong. Camilla turned herself to marble.

“Trust me, he hasn’t. If he does, _when_ he does, you will know about it.” Francis looks almost relieved, grateful, but there’s something else lurking in his eyes. Something almost like jealousy but not quite, always dulled by guilt. There’s more silence, not quite as comfortable as the last time. Finally, Francis coughs and turns around. He’s smiling but it’s fake and she doesn't have the patience to return it.

“You can sleep in my bed.” The smile drops from his face and he walks away faster than she can follow. She considers asking him to slow down, but then they’re at the door of the bedroom and it doesn't matter anymore. They stand, not looking at one another, but watching, calculating, almost predatory— and then the moment is gone. Francis closes the distance between them and gathers her into his arms, buries his face in her hair. Her arms link around his waist, resting on his back, soothing. He’s whispering into her hair, almost sobbing, something that sounds like 'I'm so sorry, why us, I'm so sorry.', and Camilla can’t hate him, doesn't have the strength or the cruelty, and besides, they understand each other in a way no-one else can. She doesn't want to give that up in a numb, dull rage. She doesn't want Charles to win, to distance her from everyone else that she loves, from everyone that isn't him.

Camilla pushes Francis towards the bed and they collapse together, wrapped in something too comforting to break. It’s nearly dawn— the still open curtains don’t hide how the sky is lightening, illuminating the rain that hasn’t yet stopped. Camilla’s clothes are still wet, they’re both shaking, from cold or from something else she doesn't dare to name (if she does, she won’t be able to breathe. If she does, it will consume her and spit her back out, hollowed and empty), and Charles will come looking for her soon. She doesn't care. For now, she is safe; she will worry about the morning when it comes.


End file.
